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Archive for August, 2015

All Up in My Grill

A pair of nesting homosexuals moved here about six months ago. The one who appears to be the top is spotted often. He brushed by me several times on the first floor, next to the aluminum mailboxes; pressing his stripper body close against a scuffed wall as he glides by my ass, strategically turned so that he can see it as I check for the new cable bill.

I was sitting on the front step with my man on Friday evening. We were watching children play in a water park across the street. Large streams of heavily chlorinated water spewed from colorful metal fountains shaped in all sizes upon little people who screamed in delighted as their little brown feet pattered atop a soft, artificial turf, running from one waterfall to the next. The nurse who could never stick me with anything that hurt was dressed in a blue hospital uniform. He smiled as we stood up. My lover used his electronic key to grant him access.

“I think he has a white lover,” my black friend said just a few weeks ago. We were both under the impression there was another nesting pair of inter-racial homosexuals living in this heavily populated immigrant building, until this morning. But who was the white queen my lover spotted?

I was heading in the door at 7:30 sharply this morning, I was on my way home from the supermarket where, after clipping several coupons that came in the mail, I managed to turn a $45 total into a mere $26.43. The butch one who cannot be more than 25 or so, was trailed by, what in my view, was the youngest full-blown queen I have ever seen in this 47 years of gay life.

He cannot be more than 19 I thought, watching carefully as the stud strutted by me in a tight, white wife-beater. I waited for him to speak to me again, as the younger came down the stairs. He looked at me like he never saw me before. One could almost still smell hot sex on them even though both were freshly showered and obviously on their way to a beach out here in Jersey.

I held the door for his barely-legal sissy lover despite holding four heavy bags filled with cat food and four pounds of London broil that went on sale this morning. The young queen thanked me at least three times as he swished by– giving that ‘oh I know what you are and you better stay away from my man’ glance that I mastered long before the age of 19.

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An old man clawed his way onto an elevator at 369 Lexington Avenue early this morning. His wrinkled hand reached through a narrow space in the elevator as the doors attempted to close. I was reviewing my delivery manifest and turning to the page where a customer on the 19th floor needed to sign. The man ruined the peaceful bliss of that cool elevator. My red t-shirt was already drenched in sweat.

“God damn it! This is bull shit,” he yelled as his wrinkled split-hoof pushed numerous buttons on the car. I was hoping he was not angry at me and yelling at me because I am, after all, certified “schizophrenic”, diagnosed as such in 2002 and not on medications.

A favorite customer of mine, Terri Tafeen, who works at a real estate company near Baruch College had given me a small tomato this morning. I convinced Terri to plant the tomatoes back in June at her home in that Hamptons. She has been offering me updates on the growth process all summer long. She brought one for me to work today. It was in the company refrigerator and cold as the bastard on the elevator. I ate the fifty-cent piece size fruit on my way uptown. The taste was mesmerizing. It reminded me of my grandmother. I was in such a good mood until I had no choice but to say something to the pig from the 3rd Floor–

“Did you ever consider seeing a shrink? Fucking lunatic?”

The old man had nothing to say, so I continued, “I didn’t see you coming on.”

He failed to say he was sorry, so as he exited the elevator on the third floor, I started sing the Patsy Cline song, “Crazy” as he entered his plush office.

He turned and looked at me with a puzzled glance, as if I were the crazy one.

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